7 things I miss about living in Italy

I lived in Padova, Italy, in 2015-2016. It’s difficult to believe, but it has already been 3 years since I moved to Munich! I’ve been back to Italy a few times, and now, during a weekend of cycling along the Adige River, in a bout of nostalgia, I decided to write a blogpost about all the things I miss about living in Italy.

Up until now, I’ve lived in 5 different countries, on 3 different continents, and travelled in many more. Living in any country has both pros and cons. I don’t need to think too much about the con of living it Italy, which can be summarised in one word: Bureaucracy. It’s not that bureaucracy can’t be a problem in other places. In Germany, it took me months to convince the bureaucrats to pay me a postdoc salary, because the formal requirement for being in this salary class is having a masters degree, and it was not clear to them that having a Bachelor with Honours and a PhD from Australia is equivalent or superior to a European masters degree. In Italy, unfortunately, the bureaucracy becomes very complicated when money is involved. There is a strong tendency for mistakes to happen, if they lead to you losing money. Figuring out what went wrong normally involves going around in circles and becoming more and more confused with every person you talk to. Such bureaucratic things, unfortunately, leave a disproportionately strong impression, because dealing with them is normally the first and the last thing to do upon moving. For example, after I moved out of my flat in Padova, the electricity company continued to take money from my account, but tripled the amount. After a lot of effort, and still no idea how this actually happened, I got some of the money back and they stopped charging me.

But this blog post is about the nice things in Italy, of which there are a lot. I’ll start with an obvious one: The weather. As far as Germany goes, the weather in Munich is not too bad. However, days when I can wear my summer clothes from Australia and Italy, and when I really feel like taking an ice cream or going for a swim, are rare. Central European friends tell me I’m spoilt.

A second obvious point is food. With time, I’ve found various places throughout Munich where one can get authentic Italian food (and coffee!). However, there is a whole culture around food in Italy that just cannot be recreated in Germany. Coffee is often drunk in bars, such as the one that was just next to my office in Via Venezia in Padova. The bar tender knew me, and would start preparing my coffee the second I’d enter the bar. When going into a bar in Italy, chances are very high that you’ll get a good coffee. In Germany, when I travel to a new city, I got into the habit of googling “good coffee places in…”. If you don’t do your research in advance, chances are very high you’ll end up getting a cappuccino with long life milk!

In Padova, there are three squares around the famous historical Palazzo della Raggione. Under the palazzo itself are corridors with lots of shops which, in other part of the world, would be called Delicatessen, but which in Italy is just normal food. Cheeses, meats, fresh pasta, fish, sundried tomatoes, bakeries… For me, living in Italy has ruined soft cheeses in non-cheese countries. Twice a week, on the surrounding squares, there are markets. On two of the squares, they sell clothes and various plastic things, on the third square they sell fruits and vegetables. Every Saturday morning, I would walk to the fruit market, 10 minutes’ walk from my flat, and buy several big bags full of fruits and vegetables. Soon, I found my favourite stands. The fruit stand I liked was run by an elderly couple: the wife called me “stella” (star), and the husband “tesoro” (treasure). Whenever I was away for a couple of weeks, they would ask me about my holiday.  

Leading on directly from food, I come to the third thing I miss: Spritz. I don’t mean the drink: it has become immensely popular in Germany, and you can get it at any bar (though for 3x the price you would pay in Padova). Drinking Spritz is not the same if it doesn’t happen within the surroundings of a historical Italian city. On the aforementioned three squares in Padova, markets are held during the daytime. Around the time of sunset, the stalls close, the umbrellas above them are folded, trucks hosting them are swiftly driven off the squares. Instead, the bars and cafés at the edge of the squares pop up a sea of small tables and foldable chairs. This, in turn, attracts people, who sit down and start enjoying their before-dinner drinks. The streets are alive with people socialising, drinking spritz’, and enjoying themselves. In Munich, night life tends to finish around 10pm, though I like to think that there is some Italian influence in this southern part of Germany. People of Munich like to go to Beergardens, which are outdoor places with benches and a bar where one can get beer and sausages, sometimes a huge piece of meat called “Schweinehaxe”.

From the lively atmosphere in the historical streets of Padova, I will segue to my next point: Decorations. Italian cities and villages are beautiful: historical churches, decorated houses, little alleyways, cobblestone streets. All of these exist for historical reasons, of course, unlike in Australia and Germany, where for other historical reasons buildings tend to be new and the streets broad and straight. (Quadratisch, praktisch, gut.) In addition, there are a lot of little things that make the cities and landscapes even more beautiful. On most bridges, you will find flower pots with colourfully blossoming flowers. If you pass a vineyard, you will often find rose bushes at the end of every row of vine. In Padova, the famous Prato della Valle, the biggest oval square in Europe, is decorated throughout the year. In the centre of the oval is a fountain. During the winter, it is dry: a large pole is put in the middle, with chains of light going from its top to the walls of the fountain, giving the illusion of a huge Christmas tree. To extend the Christmas feel to other modalities, there were loudspeakers, installed inside of every trash can on the square, singing Christmas songs. 

All in all, the lifestyle in Italy is more relaxed than in many other countries. This is the fourth thing I miss about Italy, though it is a double-edged sword. People walk more slowly in Italy than in Australia or Germany, often enjoying a cigarette at the same time. In combination with the small alleyways, this created some challenges for overtaking people during my daily walk to work. The relaxed lifestyle is what makes it possible to sit on the square and enjoy its atmosphere and a spritz. The decorations would not be there if people did not have enough time to (a) put them up and (b) enjoy them. The flip-side of the coin is, for example, the different perception of punctuality. Meeting with a friend, it can happen that they send you a message, saying they will be 10 minutes late. You’re glad they let you know and get to the meeting place 10 minutes later than initially agreed, only to spend another half hour waiting. This is technically not a problem if you know not to take it personally: you bring a book, and enjoy a coffee or prosecco until they come. However, this requires a change in mindset: in Australia and Germany, such delays (by colleagues or friends) may be interpreted as a sign of disrespect. I got used to this new perception of punctuality in some ways. When I met with colleagues from Australia at a conference, they invited me to come along for dinner at 7:30. I arrived around 8-ish, and was surprised that everyone had already ordered. In work life, I did not learn to balance this approach with a busy schedule: when meeting Person B one hour after Person A, and Person A would come 50 minutes late, I would cut them off and leave after 10 minutes, so I’d be in time for my meeting with Person B (who would often come late, too). Still, the charm of this mentality became evident to me when I went to a conference in Vicenza, after having already moved away from Italy. A colleague was late to a meeting. She did not offer an excuse, but an explanation: “I took a wrong turn, and ended up on the top of a hill. The view from there was so beautiful!”

The fifth thing I miss about Italy is speaking Italian. Before I came to Italy, I was refreshing my high-school Italian by reading Pinocchio and writing out and memorising words and phrases which I thought could be useful. When I arrived in Padova, my Italian was not good enough to communicate about anything but the very basics. Contrary to my expectations, I found that people were very tolerant of my broken Italian. When people on the street realised that speaking to me in Italian was useless, they would start waving their arms and listing all of the English words that they knew. An Italian friend explained that Italians just love to communicate: and if they can’t do this in their native language, they will find another way. In restaurants, shops, streets, and even at the doctor’s practice, it should not be taken for granted that there will be someone who speaks English. In Padova, when registering as a resident, I needed to speak Italian. Despite the difficulty of the bureaucracy – I went to the office 4 times, and each time, I got different lists of documents that I need to bring, in original and copy – the clerks were very friendly and always complimented me on my Italian.

The last thing I miss might come as a surprise to people who know Italy mostly through the stereotypes: It’s the train network. After living in Australia, I took any opportunity to do day- or weekend-trips, and as I didn’t have a car, trains were my main way of travelling. Contrary to the stereotypes, I found they were mostly on time, and I never had any major delays. I would not say that the German train system, the Deutsche Bahn, compares favourably to Italy.

The main Italian train company, TrenItalia, has a network of fast trains (the freccias), and slow trains (regionale or regionale veloce). There is also a competitor company, Italo, which offers fast connections between bigger cities. The Freccia Rossa (literally translated: “red arrow”) can travel at speeds up to 300 km/h. For shorter trips, it’s much cheaper to take the Regionale, which can be either the standard line, where the train stops in every village, or a Regionale Veloce, which stops only in the bigger places. Taking the train from Padova to Venice, the Regionale Veloce took the same amount of time as the Freccias, but was about 3 times cheaper. With the regional train, a daytrip from Venice to Padova was cheaper than a return trip for the metro from the place where we live to the city centre of Munich.

The train network allowed me to travel both to bigger cities (Naples, Milan, Bologna, Florence) and smaller towns (Trieste, Treviso, Monselice, Ferrara). I went to Venice often enough, so that towards the end of my stay in Italy, I could walk around for a whole 10 minutes before getting completely lost. Luckily, there is a direct connection between Munich and Padova, which offers amazing views of the Austrian Alps. I took this train the very first time I came to Padova, which was in January. Right after the station at the border between Austria and Italy, the train goes through a tunnel. The tunnel, as I understand, divides the north-facing and the south-facing part of the Alps. On the Austrian side, the sky was grey, the ground covered with snow. As soon as we got out of the tunnel, the sky was blue, the grass was green. “This must be a good sign!” I thought to myself at that time.

Kota Kinabalu

It was dark when we landed in Kota Kinabalu. The airport was not huge. After collecting our luggage, we passed through an additional security check, where our luggage was scanned. With a seal of approval on our suitcases, we entered the arrival hall. I knew what to do, I’d read about it: In order to catch a taxi, we first needed to find a counter, where we would tell our destination address. The cost would be estimated and we would pay at this counter. We would then get a receipt with the address, which we would give to the taxi driver. This, we were told, was a measure recently taken to prevent taxi drivers from over-charging unsuspecting tourists. After some discussion between the two men behind the counter about where our hotel was located, we sat in an air-conditioned taxi through a city in a country where we had never been before.

We had booked the hotel through booking dot com. The reviews had mentioned that the place was rather remote, but since we like walking and the air distance to the city centre seemed reasonable on google maps, we figured it would be perfect for us. As it turned out, the hotel was in a new suburb, which consisted of a handful of streets with identical three-storey town houses and a church. There was only one street through which one could enter or exit the suburb, to which all of the other streets connected in a bronchial pattern. Just outside the suburb, a high-rise building was under construction.

Our hotel was in one of the town houses. The owners were out for dinner, but the other guests, a couple from China, had been asked to greet us and give us the keys. After getting the most important information – the wifi password – we asked them whether there was a place to eat within walking distance. There wasn’t. Not quite believing them, we decided to walk out and explore the area. At the first street corner, we encountered a dog. It did not seem to want us to enter its territory: to get past it, we walked, squeezed against the wall on the opposite side of the street, not taking our eyes off it. Then we got to the exit of the suburb. Getting to the city would have required us to walk along the winding, partly unpaved road, until we would join a larger road which would lead to Kota Kinabalu. Altogether, we would need to walk 5 kilometres. Outside the suburb was the construction side, abandoned in the dark. The road was surrounded by shrubbery. A pair of eyes shone at us from the shrubbery. We heard barking and howling, some of it close by, some further away. We decided to return to the hotel.

First thing in the morning, we decided to explore the city. After we verified that, indeed, there was no footpath to the city, I installed the Uber app on my iPad, and for the first time in my life, I ordered an Uber. As I would do in a European city, I decided to start our exploration in a central area, and after looking at a map of the Kota Kinabalu, I picked a mall called the Star Centre. Our Uber arrived, and under some pleasant small talk, he drove us past the construction site, through the winding road, to the bigger, three-lane road that led to the city centre, past apartment blocks, through modest traffic. “The Star Centre”, he declared, when he stopped in front of a slightly run-down-looking building. He did not say this in a confident manner, as if fearing that we would be disappointed. We thanked and paid him, and walked through the entrance into the shopping mall. It was still early, some time before 9. In its structure, the mall looked like any other mall that one can find anywhere else in the world. However, it was empty: we were the only people there. Many of the shops were unoccupied altogether, others were still closed, with iron bars covering the shop fronts. The mall had two or three storeys, but the upper floors looked like nobody ever entered them. After several unsuccessful attempts at connecting my iPad to the wifi, we realised that we had no map, and no idea where to go to from here.

“First, let’s just get something to eat”, we decided. We were still hungry after our unsuccessful attempt to get dinner the previous evening – though our fellow hotel guests had kindly shared some snacks they had bought from the local market with us (they had given us the disclaimer that they had no idea what these snacks actually were). We found a stand in the mall, where we ordered Malaysian Kopi with sweetened condensed milk (which was served in a take-away cup that came with a take-away-cup-sized-and-shaped plastic bag), and a set of pastries, one of them filled with a custard containing the infamous durian: a melon-sized fruit that, when opened, smells so badly, that it is strictly banned from Singapore trains and hotels. The taste of the durian was unusual. Ondra did not like the durian’s taste, leaving me to finish this pastry after he had taken a small bite from it.

After we had eaten something, the shops in the mall had started opening, people were starting to stroll past the bench on which we were sitting, and the world already looked brighter. We left the cool mall, with tentative steps exploring its surroundings. We crossed some streets, watching out carefully for motorcyclists, trying to stay on the shady sides of the roads to avoid the heat. Soon, we stumbled across a bigger mall. There, we finally managed to connect to the wifi, chased down a map, and bought mosquito repellent in a pharmacy. The sea was only a few blocks away. Armed with our new map, we started walking in its direction, and indeed soon reached the market, which stretches for several blocks along the beach, and sells everything from souvenirs and clothes to fruits and seafood. A roof protected the shoppers and vendors from the scorching heat, naked light bulbs hung from the ceiling. Many of the fruits we had never seen before. After pointing at the most exotic-looking fruits, we left with two bags worth of shopping.

We were particularly excited to explore the countryside of Borneo, as neither of us had ever seen a landscape which was this close to the equator. Our original plan had been to hike to Mount Kinabalu, but a tendon injury had forced us to abandon this idea. Instead, we booked a few tours to explore the area around Kota Kinabalu. The first tour consisted of a boat tour through the jungle, followed by a dinner at a place near the river, driving to the beach to watch the sunset, and another river tour to admire the glow worms. The second tour involved cycling through the jungle, as well as through smaller towns in the vicinity.

In the early afternoon of our first day, we were back at out hotel, waiting for the tour guide to pick us up. The tour guide called: He could not find the hotel. I passed my mobile phone to the hotel owner. Several minutes later, a van turned into our street. In the car with us was a couple, who later turned out to be employees from a law firm in Hong Kong, staying in Kota Kinabalu for a long-weekend trip. We left the city, and passed a bridge from where we had a clear view of Mount Kinabalu’s bell shape. We stopped at the petrol station for a bathroom break. Still jet-lagged, Ondra and I decided to get some coffee. “Try this”, I told him, giving him a can from the fridge. “This coffee will be better than coffee at petrol stations in the Czech Republic!” From my time in Sydney, I remembered these cans from the Asian stores, as a sweet, refreshing drink. Later, Ondra told me that I was wrong about it being better than instant machine coffee from Czech petrol stations.

We turned off the highway, and drove along a river. “Is that a crocodile?” Ondra pointed excitedly at something that was sitting in a river and that we saw flash past our window. It later turned out that there were no crocodiles in the region, and it was likely to be a big lizard. The van stopped in an unpaved parking lot, where some other vans and tourists were already waiting. We were wearing shorts, t-shirts and sneakers. Some other visitors were wearing summer dresses and high heels. Next to the parking lot was a house, and next to the house was a roofed terrace, overlooking the river. The boat tour through the jungle was first on the itinerary: we were given bright red swimming vests, and shown to a boat, big enough to carry approximately fifteen people. Think greenery surrounded the river: we were scanning it carefully for monkeys. At times, behind the greenery, we would get a view of Mount Kinabalu. Ondra clicked the camera as soon as this happened. Whenever a monkey was sighted, the boat’s captain stopped, and tried to manoeuvre the boat closer to the tree where the monkey was hiding. These shy little creatures were difficult to spot between the leaves. Under some hanging bridges we went, then we returned to the terrace, where dinner was served: to our disappointment, no local specialities, but a tourist-friendly, culturally neutral buffet. Then we were ushered to the vans again: We would be taken to the beach, to watch the sunset. With my feet, I wrote “X+O” in the sand: this was our honeymoon, after all. The next stop: the glow-worm show. It got dark very quickly: we were taken to a different river, a different river-side house with a roofed terrace attached, and were distributed into a handful of boats. The glow-worms looked like tasteful Christmas decorations at a garden party: shining on the trees on the shore. The tour guide flickered his torch, and they came flying in masses, allowing us to catch them and let them go again.

Next morning, we ordered another Uber, and asked to be dropped off close to the Sunday market. It was hot already, the market was crowded. I pulled Ondra through the busy street, occasionally stopping to get an ice-cold mango juice from a stall, or to buy little souvenirs. After we ticked the Sunday market off our to-do-list, we went to the pier. In a large hall, we bought our tickets to one of the islands off the shore of Kota Kinabalu. We were told to wait in an area at the end of the large pier: the pier was crowded, but we managed to find a place to sit on one of the many plastic benches. The boats were smaller than the one we had been on the previous day, on the river. Once our boat was called, we were given swimming vests, then the trip started. Through turquoise-blue water, the bottom of the boat crashing against the waves, past fishing boats, the occasional plastic bag rocking in the waves. It took about half an hour to get to the island. A white sand beach greeted us: there were already crowds sitting on the beach, adults with swimming vests knee-deep in the quiet sea. We decided to explore the island first: After all, there was not only the beach, but also a forest on this island. Following a road, we got to the end of the beach, and found a path leading to the forest. Stepping on the path, we left the crowds behind us. The path became smaller and smaller, but it had clearly once been well-visited. We passed an old gazebo. After a relatively short walk, we descended a small hill, and found ourselves in a garden restaurant. It turned out to be the only restaurant on this island, and we were hungry. We paid for the buffet, and dug in the tourist-friendly, culturally neutral food. Then we went swimming, first Ondra, then me.

We went back to Kota Kinabalu on one of the last boats. There was a feeling of chaos as all the remaining visitors rushed to the pier, but there were enough boats for all: we ended up on a boat with an extremely serious-looking captain. Next to him was a speaker box, blasting a techno-song with the lyrics “banana – papaya!”

“Something tells me this ride’s going to be crazy!” Ondra told me, grinning from ear to ear. He was right: under the catchy tune, the boat zig-zagged through the waves at top speed, hitting the biggest waves head-on, splashing the enthusiastically screaming passengers from all sides.

When we got back to Kota Kinabalu, we calculated that we should have enough time to see one of the city’s most important sights: the mosque, famous for being surrounded by water. We decided to walk. From the pier, this involved getting past some large water-side mall which was clearly meant to be seen only from the inside, past something that looked like a construction site, but then finally getting to a strip of green for pedestrians. We were walking along a busy three-lane road, but first across a lawn with coconut trees, with the sea to our left side, and then through a park with gazebos, picnicking families, playing children, and a remarkably clean public bathroom. Finally we arrived at the mosque, but were faced with a problem: The mosque was on the other side of the three-lane road, with no pedestrian crossing in sight. We did not let this stop us. The sun was setting, its last rays shining on the white walls of the mosque, its architecture reflected in the water. We were too late to go in – on tripavisor, someone had said that it was possible to go up in one of the towers. After walking around and taking pictures from all sides, we started looking for a taxi, because we realised that walking back to the city in the dark might not be the most pleasant experience. As there were no other tourists – it was already late – we started worrying, but then we spotted an old car with an old man and a taxi sign. We got in, and asked for a lift to the city. We ate in a Chinese restaurant and drank coconut water from an actual coconut. Then we went for a stroll through the city centre, towards the sea. Life seemed to have started after the sun had set. We walked past a durian market: We did not come close, but we could smell it before we saw what it was. We walked via some overpasses over the busy roads. We walked through the night food market, where tables with plastic cloths and plastic chairs had already been prepared, but life had not yet begun. Then we walked to a mall which we had already discovered as a good place to connect to the wifi and order an Uber, and went back to the hotel. We had a big day ahead on the next day.

On the next day, we were picked up by another guide. In the car, he told us proudly that at first, he couldn’t find our address, but then he had googled the name of the hotel, found the contact of the owners, and called them for directions. In addition to us, there was one more visitor: a middle-aged, Cambridge-educated engineer living in London. He was equipped with a large camera, and a brand-new-looking bag which seemed big enough to fit the camera, but nothing else. He had returned from Mount Kinabalu on the previous day.

We were taken to a village outside Kota Kinabalu, a house at the edge of the village, standing on high poles, probably to keep the snakes out. We were led to the shed and given bikes, helmets, and a water bottle. One of the guides would come with us by bike, the other would drive a pick-up-truck on the bigger roads which were parallel to our route with another bike in the back, in case there was a need for replacement. We all looked fit, we were told by the guide, which was good: He could take us via a more challenging, but also more interesting road.

We quickly turned off the main paved road, and passed a herd of water buffaloes. We entered a private property: a rubber tree plantation. The bike club, which was organising these bike tours but originated as a group of bike enthusiasts, had gotten permission from the owner to include the plantation as part of the tour. The guide explained to us that the workers on the plantation tended towards heavy use of alcohol, something which the owner did not like, because harvesting the sap from the rubber trees is a delicate work: it is important to carve the rind in the right way, otherwise the tree is damaged, causing losses in harvest. By allowing the bike club to ride through the plantation, the owner hoped that the workers would become interested in cycling, and by picking up a new hobby, reduce their drinking. This plan, our guide told us, was partially successful: they had already recruited new members from this plantation. The owner’s condition for allowing the club to use his land for the bike tour was that we had to pass the workers’ lodging, so they would see us.

After the plantation came the hanging bridges, one of the highlights of this tour. We were given instructions: to keep our balance, not to slow down, to wait for the person before us to pass before crossing. The bridges were narrow, with high barriers on both sides. “This is not too different from passing through London traffic”, the engineer told us. After the four of us had passed, a couple on a moped that had been waiting for us thundered over to the other side. Ondra and the engineer started discussing the physics behind the hanging bridge’s oscillations. I asked the guide what kind of people lived in these parts. He said that they were often people working in the city and commuting. After passing some banana plantations, we arrived at our goal: the next village or little town. There were wild dogs on the street, but unlike the ones in our suburb at night, they did not seem to be at all interested in us. In the town, there was a large pagoda, and a little restaurant to which our guide took us. The restaurant had a buffet, with food for tourists and food for locals. We took the food for locals, and another coconut filled with refreshing coconut water. After lunch, we took the short way back, because the guide was afraid that it could start raining. We were dropped off at our hotel before sunset, and immediately set off to the next item on our list: Watching the sunset from a set of stairs that lead down a hill, from a winding road, to the city centre. The guide of today’s tour had warned us not to go there after sunset: apparently, there were some shady figures hanging out there at night. The Uber driver dropped us off at the top of these stairs, we walked down with our hearts beating slightly faster than usual, but still enjoying the view over the city and, behind it, the sea and the setting sun. It was still light when we got to the bottom. We were a little bit relieved as we rushed to the seaside to catch the last rays of the sun over the sea. Then we went to the next sight: the night market, this time with an empty stomach. Not really knowing what to expect, we sat down at the first place that looked good to us. It turned out that they did not have any meat on that day, only fish. I ordered the most spicy meal, Ondra (who is allergic to fish) ordered a desert that the guide had recommended, something called ABC. The fish was excellent. The ABC turned out to be a combination of jelly cubes, condensed milk, shaved ice, and even a few pieces of pasta.

On the next day, I woke Ondra up excitedly, and called the Uber: We were going to the local art gallery. We stood outside our hotel, still catching wifi so we could see where our Uber driver was. On the online map, we saw that he missed the turn and drove to the next suburb. He stopped: the app’s chat window popped up, he told us he was waiting for us. I explained that he was in the wrong suburb: he’d need to go back and turn to the right. After some negotiation, he managed to find us.

We told him we were going to the gallery. “I know where it is”, he told us, “the address that Uber says is wrong.” Ondra and I looked at each other. “The gallery has recently moved”, the driver explained to us. We nodded. After a while, we arrived at a severe-looking building, with a boomgate and security guarding it. The car turned into the driveway, the driver exchanged some words with the security guy. This was not the gallery, but the guard told him where to find it. After some more zig-zagging, the car turned into another driveway, leading up a small hill to a modern, upside-down cone-shaped building. The driver followed us inside: he said he also wanted to have a look at the exhibition. We bought our tickets, the driver exchanged some words with the guy at the counter and quickly disappeared to the exhibition rooms, and we went to the top floor, to an exhibition of art by women from Sabah.

After we had gone through the exhibition, we checked if we could connect to the internet to call an Uber, but there was no wifi at the gallery. Instead, we went to the counter where we’d bought the tickets, and explained the situation. “Didn’t you come with your own driver?” The guy asked, looking confused. We explained to him that the man who had come in with us was only the Uber driver and had probably left a while ago. No problem, the guy immediately arranged an Uber for us.

We asked the Uber driver to take us back to the pier: we wanted to explore another one of the islands. It was later than last time we had been there: the crowds were already distributed on the islands’ beaches. We found a company that still had outgoing boats, and bought our tickets. This island was bigger, and upon our arrival, we saw monkeys playing on a tree, which we’d had such a hard time spotting on the boat tour. Wanting to exchange my sunglasses for my normal glasses, I reached into the pocket in Ondra’s backpack only to notice that they were gone. After our first quibble as a married couple about whose fault it was, we again went off to try and find a path that would take us through the jungle. When we got back to the beach, the tourists were already gone. Ondra went for a swim, I was still grumpy about losing my glasses and stayed on the beach. On the pier, we were alone, and started wondering if we had misunderstood about the last boat’s departure time. Indeed, it seemed we had. In the end, some more tourists came, and a boat buzzed towards the pier. After we explained our situation, the captain made a phone call, and waved us to get on board: the boat was run by a different company from the one with whom we’d bought our tickets, but they agreed to give us a lift, anyway.

On the way back, the boat’s captain had to make a detour, presumably on some personal business. The detour was past a fisherman’s village: colourful wooden houses, the minaret of a little mosque, all on poles sticking out of the water, clothes lines and wooden crossings between the houses, a true Malaysian Venice. Our boat approached one of the many piers: the captain reached a snorkelling set out towards the pier as far as he could, a little girl, perhaps six years old, came running across the pier, tip-tap, and took the snorkelling set.

This was already our last day in Kota Kinabalu. We had to find my glasses – if we could. First, we went to the company that had sold us the boat ticket: the counter was still open and we asked if, maybe, I had not lost my glasses on the boat on the way to the island. They asked us to take a seat while they’d make some calls: after a nerve-wrecking wait, we were told that no, the captain had had a look, but unfortunately he could not find my glasses in the boat. As soon as we found a place with wifi, I found the art gallery on facebook and sent them a message: it was possible that the glasses had fallen out when we were getting in or out of the Uber. The guy who had ordered the Uber had probably already finished his shift, I wrote, but if there was any way to find out if maybe I’d dropped my glasses either somewhere between leaving the gallery building (where I had still worn my glasses) and leaving the Uber car… I got a relatively quick response: They had searched the area between the reception and the driveway, called the guy who had been on duty and ordered our Uber, found the Uber, and called the driver. But still no glasses.

A last walk through the city, a last sunset over the sea. In the dark, we went in a direction where we had not been before: past the local market, and to a chain of waterfront cafés and restaurants, filled with tourists, menu boards boasting European beers and hamburgers. At the end of this chain, there was a mall: we needed to use the bathroom, so we walked in. The toilet was a western one: a seat rather than a squat toilet, there was toilet paper, and no container of water next to the toilet, in which a little bucket would swim, presumably to scoop water out for subsequent cleaning. A western mall: the same shops that we know, new, sparkling clean tile floors.

A last Uber drive to our hotel: We would leave Kota Kinabalu the next morning. The streets which had seemed so exotic first were now familiar, though the airport looked different in daylight.